


In Our Bedroom After the War

by shayera



Category: Gravity Falls
Genre: Amnesia, Gen, Guilt, Hurt/Comfort, Torture Flashbacks, Weirdmageddon aftermath
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-17
Updated: 2019-05-17
Packaged: 2020-03-06 18:27:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,474
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18856615
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shayera/pseuds/shayera
Summary: When Weirdmageddon fades, Stanley isn't the only one who emerges broken.





	In Our Bedroom After the War

The world was back.

The forest was back. The singing birds, the summer breeze, the sunlight trickling through the canopy of leaves. The sky was a brilliant blue, as if it had never cracked open and spewed nightmares over the valley of Gravity Falls.

The demon was dead.

Stanford Pines was trembling.

By all rights, this should have been a triumph. The threat to all reality posed by the demon – enabled by Stanford himself so many years ago – was gone. Ended at the very moment when all seemed lost. No, when all _would have been_ lost, if it hadn’t been for—

If his brother hadn’t—

Ford clenched the hands that had held the gun, unable to completely stop the shivers, but at least rendering them less noticeable. The children would be looking to him for guidance. It wouldn’t do to break down now, when it was all over.

In fact, he realized with a deep shudder, he was safe. He was bathed in the sunlight of a morning that would never have come, wearing an ill-fitting suit, toes crammed into too small shoes, and for the first time in over three decades there was no demon breathing down his neck. It should have been a triumph, and yet he felt numb.

 “Grunkle Sta—Grunkle Ford!” Mabel’s voice from somewhere behind him startled him more than it should have. “You did it! Everything is back to normal! I don’t even understand what happened but you saved us!”

“Mabel, wait!” Dipper’s warning came a little too late, as his sister had already thrown her arms around Ford’s waist, squeezing him painfully. Ford’s fists clenched harder at his sides, but it was just Mabel. She wasn’t going to break his bones or— _He wasn’t thinking about that._

“Mabel,” he said instead, as calmly as possible, maneuvering himself and her around to face each other. She was wearing Stanley’s red fez. “I’m afraid you’re mistaken.”

She tensed. “What do you mean? Bill is gone, isn’t he?”

Ford nodded. “Bill is gone, and he’s not coming back. But I’m not the one who saved us.” All he had done was to pull the trigger on his own brother, the brother he’s kept underestimating and writing off until the moment it was too late to make amends. He took a deep breath. “Stanley did.”

“Is he okay?” Dipper had stopped a bit off to the side, arms folded like he was hugging himself, and glancing around as if trying to locate Stanley. “The memory gun – I mean – you erased Bill, didn’t you? Is Grunkle Stan okay?”

Ford sighed and squeezed his eyes shut for a moment. “No.” There was no point trying to hide the truth from the children, not after everything they’d been through. “The only way to be sure to erase Bill was to wipe Stan’s entire mind. He—” Ford’s voice broke, and he had to swallow to compose himself. “He sacrificed himself for us.”

Mabel stared at him, wide-eyed, but Dipper eyes narrowed, like an accusation. It was well deserved.

“It should have been me.” That was no defense. It _should_ have been Ford, but it wasn’t. He’d been willing to—he’d _wanted_ to die defeating Bill for so many years, but when the moment came his own desperate means of protection against the demon’s mental intrusions was exactly what had rendered him incapable of the deed.

There had been a moment when he’d lost all hope. When the choice had seemed to be between surrendering the world to Bill’s chaotic destruction and watching the children he’d come to know and love suffer and die in Bill’s hands. He knew what Bill was capable of. The thought of Bill turning his energies on the intelligent, curious boy or the bright, creative girl before him made him want to scream again, even knowing that they were safe now.

Ford had been ready to give in, and afterwards no one would have ever been safe.

“Stanley took my place because the memory gun wouldn’t have worked on me,” he explained, keeping his voice steady. “I have a metal plate installed in my head that makes me immune.” Dipper already knew this, but Mabel deserved to understand, too. She was still staring blankly at him.

Dipper took a few steps closer and put his arms around his sister, unclear whether to comfort her or himself. “Are you saying he’s—he’s dead?”

Ford licked his lips. “He should be physically fine. But the man he was – everything he knew and cared about – it’s gone. _He’s_ gone. I’m sorry, but you need to be ready for that.”

Mabel finally blinked. “No,” she said.

“What?”

“No, he’s not gone. I’m not gonna accept that and neither will he!”

“Mabel, that’s not how it—”

“La-la-la, I can’t hear you!” Mabel papped her hands over her ears, then smiled brightly. “You’ll see, Grunkle Ford! He’ll be fine! He’s a hero! Come on, Dipper, let’s go find him!” She grabbed her brother’s hand and dragged him off in a random direction, not waiting for Ford to follow.

Ford pushed down a spell of dizziness. His heart was beating too fast, his vision swaying as he followed the children at a slower pace. They did have to find Stanley. They had to take care of him somehow. But Mabel was wrong – she was a child. She didn’t understand that sometimes the hero is the one who is _not_ left standing in the end.

It was expected, but still agonizing to see the light die in Mabel’s eyes when they reached him. He was sitting in the grass in a small clearing, his face dazed and empty, looking at the restored world with no indication of understanding it. The contrast was profound between this shell of a man and the focused, determined, clever brother who had convinced Ford to switch clothes and pull a final desperate con in the few minutes of time the children’s actions had bought them. The brother who had wordlessly squeezed Ford’s six-fingered hand and looked at him like he wished he could pour a lifetime’s worth of missed companionship into a single gaze.

“I’m sorry,” Ford mouthed even as Mabel ran up to the shell, putting the fez back on his head, hugging him and thanking him for saving them all. The man that used to be Stanley blinked and managed to talk, but all that came out was confused politeness.

She was openly weeping, begging for her Grunkle to recognize her, when Ford and Dipper dragged her away.

“He doesn’t remember,” Ford said softly. Subtle tremors ran through him again, but he made himself look at Stanley’s blank expression. “He saved the world today, and he doesn’t even know.”

A few steps forward, and Ford was close enough to touch him. The eyes that looked up at him were open, innocent, confused but accepting. “He saved us. He saved _me_.” He wasn’t sure who he was talking to anymore, but he felt the full weight of his own words like a sledgehammer to the chest, ripping his heart out. It wasn’t just the world – _he_ was saved. _Stanley had saved him_. And it was too late to thank him for it.

Ford’s legs folded beneath him, and before he knew it he pulled Stanley’s empty shell into a tight embrace. “You’re our hero, Stanley.” His voice broke into a sob, and then the tears came.

Stanford knew all too well that men shouldn’t cry, and he didn’t mean to, not now, not in front of the upset children. Perhaps it was fatigue that did it. The events of the past however-long-it-had-been in the pseudo-time of Weirdmageddon was an agonizing blur, but he was free, and alive, and safe – it was all over, all thanks to Stanley, but Stanley didn’t even know it.

Stanley didn’t move, didn’t hug him back, just sat there awkwardly. Enduring the embrace, but not reciprocating. It was too late. Stanley wasn’t there. Stanley was gone, and it had been Ford’s hand on the trigger. Ford’s own foolishness that had led them to that moment. If he’d talked to Stanley just once – trusted him like he deserved to be trusted—

Emotions that he’d kept bottled up for decades threatened to drown him. It hurt, though he doubted much of the pain was physical at this point. He was a fool. He’d known he was a fool ever since Bill’s betrayal became clear, but this was different. He’d _missed_ Stanley. He’d missed him for all those years, but hanging on to the anger made the loss easier to bear, until he hadn’t even made an attempt to reconnect when he’d had the chance. He’d ignored Stanley, dismissed him, _taken him for granted_. He’d understood nothing, and now it was too late – now he never would.

Ford didn’t cry for long. He had to pull himself together. With a shaking breath and a quick wipe of his eyes with a hand, he let the man who should have been his brother go, unable to look at his face. “I’m sorry,” he said, both to the Stanley that had been and the remains of Stanley that was.

“It’s fine,” Stanley said. “I suppose.” He hesitated, as if too confused to know what questions to ask, instead opting to ask nothing.

“Mr Pines!” a new voice exclaimed, interrupting the sudden silence. Stan’s handyman – Soos? – landed on the ground next to the brothers and started shaking Stanley’s shoulders. “Is it true? Like you not being you anymore and you can’t remember my name? Please tell me you remember my name, dude!” There were tears in his eyes, too. Apparently, Stanley had been dearly beloved by more than his immediate family.

Stanley’s face frowned slightly, as if trying to remember the correct emotions to respond to people wanting something from him that he couldn’t give. “I’m sorry, sir,” he said, which was clearly the wrong thing to say. Soos bawled.

Ford forced himself back to his feet, leaning against a tree. He was going to have to take charge of this somehow, but he didn’t know what to do. He was the most competent adult person in the vicinity, and yet he had no idea how to proceed. Was his house—was _the Mystery Shack_ still standing? Maybe not – the barrier spell around the house would have negated the effects of Weirdmageddon’s reversal, too. But the town might be alright. The children would need some food and a place to rest, surely. They’d need to get back to their parents as soon as possible. California, was it? Did anyone have a car that was still running?

And Stanley. Would need someone to help him for a while. Perhaps for the rest of his life. It was the least Ford could do.

It hurt to move, but Ford pulled himself upright and cleared his throat, steeling himself to get things done.

“Grunkle Ford?” Mabel interrupted him. She had wiped her eyes about as well as Ford himself had, now standing with her arms crossed and her hands hidden in the sleeves of her sweater. “We’re going to fix this.”

Ford slowly shook his head. “Mabel. I know that you—”

“We’re going to fix this!” Mabel repeated, loud and confident enough that everyone in the clearing looked up. “Grunkle Stan, you’re gonna be okay!” She pointed energetically at the confused man with the crooked fez, then at Ford. “Grunkle Ford, you swap your clothes back with him! He’ll feel more like himself in his own clothes! And then we’re going back to the Mystery Shack. It’s your home, Grunkle Stan – there has to be something there that can make you remember!”

Her tone was far too authoritative for a barely thirteen-year-old human, reminding Ford of that one nation of hunnerbaphs where the adolescents were the undisputed leaders – perhaps there was something to that idea after all – but he listened up. He knew for a fact that her plans wouldn’t help Stanley, but going back to the Shack was fine. He couldn’t bring himself to contradict her.

Stanley stumbled to his feet with Soos’ assistance, then tilted his head at Ford. “Do we change clothes?” he asked, too softly.

 

* * *

 

Against all odds or reason, it worked.

Mabel’s desperate hope, her refusal to accept tragedy, shone so brightly that Ford was tempted to believe she was rewriting the very laws of reality. When the amnesiac’s soft tone changed – just for a moment – into Stanley’s grumpy affection, Ford thought his heart was actually about to stop. The hard knots in his soul that had kept him going suddenly loosened, and he found himself gripping the back of Stanley’s chair, willing his knees not to buckle until he was breathing normally again. His chest ached and his fingertips tingled painfully, but he was witnessing a miracle.

Stanley wasn’t completely gone. There was still something of his brother there, something that could be saved. Tears threatened to well up in his eyes again, but not from despair this time.

He still didn’t speak while illustrated tales of a summer’s worth of shenanigans poured forth from the children and the handyman. He knew nothing about these tales, stories about a Stanley he’d never bothered to get to know, but he listened, smiling incredulously. Stanley’s polite confusion turned into eager activity, and each scrap of memory he dragged up was celebrated and cheered by the family.

Stanley wasn’t a blank slate, like Ford had assumed. He was like a sheet of pencil scribblings that had been imperfectly rubbed out by an eraser, many of the writings recoverable with some effort.

_Stanley was still there._

~~That didn’t mean anything about Bill.~~

There was no guarantee Stanley would be able to remember Ford. Or if he did, that he’d ever be able to forgive him. Maybe he shouldn’t. But Ford hadn’t erased him, hadn’t killed him utterly, and Stanley was going to be alright. That much, Ford allowed himself to hope.

The room seemed to be spinning around him. The pictures in Mabel’s scrapbook was drifting in and out of focus, and the children’s words – something about petting zoos and mutant cows – seemed to be coming to him through water. It occurred to him that if he hadn’t been leaning heavily against the back of the chair, he might have already fallen over.

Vaguely, he supposed he should have anticipated this. Adrenalin will only take you so far. His whole body ached, and he didn’t want to acknowledge why, but if Stanley was going to be alright, maybe it would be acceptable for Ford to rest. He wondered briefly how long it had been since he slept, then shied away from the thought. It was _over_. Bill was _gone_.

Ford forced a deep breath and made a decision. Collapsing here and now would be irresponsible. The children were helping Stanley recover parts of himself – who knew what damage it would do to interrupt that? He needed to get himself out of the way before he became a distraction.

He gave Stanley’s shoulder a pat that he hoped was reassuring. “Keep going,” he said. “I’ll be back.” Somehow he managed to keep his voice steady.

“Where are you going?” Mabel looked up from the scrapbook and looked at him with a hint of worry in her eyes.

“Are you okay?” Dipper added.

“Yes, I—” Ford made a vague gesture with a hand he hoped wasn’t shaking visibly. “There’s something I need to do.” _Lie down, preferably._ “I’ll be back.”

“Wait,” Stanley said, head tilted in that heart-breakingly confused manner. “You haven’t told me who you are yet. You some kinda relative?”

Something cold clenched in Ford’s stomach. He wanted to answer the question. He wanted to let Stanley know that he’d missed him. But no words came to him, and his legs wouldn’t hold him for much longer. “Later, Stanley,” he managed. “I promise.”

 

* * *

 

Ford made it to the old study, closing the carved door behind him. Only then, out of his family’s view, did he allow himself to crumble on the couch. Letting himself settle against the cushions was a relief, body limp other than a few slight, irregular twitches. Unconsciousness beckoned temptingly.

When he closed his eyes, the room around him shifted into red and black and gleaming yellow. He was still _there_ , filled with helpless dread and single-minded determination, anticipating excruciating pain that would—

_No._

He drew a sharp breath and tore his eyes open. The wooden ceiling was cracked, but familiar.

It was over.

Bill was dead.

~~Wasn’t he?~~

His racing heart refused to acknowledge reason. The recent past played on the inside of his eyelids, beneath his skin.

_“Your choice, Sixer! I could find out how to out of this pesky barrier, or I could find out how long it takes for all of your clothes to burn off your body!”_

Breathing exercises. In. Then out.

For a moment he almost regretted removing himself from the grounding presence of other people. But no, he would only be impeding Stanley’s recovery, and he was _fine_. Even if he wasn’t, the mere idea of getting back to his feet and walking seemed currently impossible. He assumed he could do it if his life depended on it, but it didn’t.

_“You know how many bones are in a six-fingered hand? There’s twenty-three, if you don’t count the wrist! I’m gonna see if I can snap all of them without tearing anything off!”_

Slowly, with great effort, Ford pushed himself up to sit on the couch. He leaned forward and studied his own hands. Twelve fingers. White palms. Smooth. No callouses. No burns. He flexed one finger at a time, confirming that they worked. Stiff and somewhat tingling, but they all moved fine. No broken bones.

_“What’dya think? Should we do that again, from the beginning? Or do you wanna let me into your head already?”_

He’d been incredibly lucky, all things considered. If the kids and Stanley had arrived at the wrong time – maybe just an hour earlier – ~~they would have found a bloody, broken wreck~~ he wouldn’t have been able to stand, much less draw a circle. One hand half-consciously touched a kneecap, whole and in place. The fact that Bill had healed him in order to inflict more pain didn’t change that fact that Bill had _healed_ him. He was _fine_.

_“Remember that time is dead, Fordsy. We could do this for all of eternity! And I mean, as long as I’m stuck in this tiny bubble, it’s not like I have anything better to do!”_

Drawing a shuddering breath and putting his glasses away on the drawer, Ford rubbed his eyes. He briefly considered getting a pot of coffee, but that would also involve moving, and he didn’t seem to have any reserves left.

Breathing. In, then out.

Eventually he clutched a pillow in his lap, curling up with his arms around it, his side against the backrest. Bill hadn’t even allowed him the comfort folding up on himself. He’d been kept in suspended gravity, ~~defenseless, exposed~~ , limbs held out by chains. Making himself smaller should prove, even to his exhausted mind, that he was no longer there.

It was over. Stanley had saved him in the end, whether he deserved to be saved it or not.

Stanley had sacrificed himself. But he would be alright. The children were bringing him back.

In, and out.

There were still yellow shapes moving behind his eyelids when he closed his eyes, but Bill was dead. Ford clenched his fists and pressed the pillow against his chest. For once, he was in no danger whatsoever.

 

* * *

 

_Bill was laughing. Ford tried to scream, but he had no voice. He stared at the blackened remains of his hands, but no, they were fine, all fingers accounted for. Stanley was staring at him from below with blank, empty eyes. Ford tried to reach him, but his knees were bent the wrong way, blood pooling through his pants, and he couldn’t even breathe. Bill towered over him, and in his hand was Mabel and Dipper, faces twisted in terror, and Ford had to do something, but Bill snapped his fingers. The world exploded into brilliant lighting, searing him from the inside, and finally a sound emerged from Ford’s mouth—_

—but it was more a strangled croak than a scream, a pathetic sound that startled him awake. He panted, still feeling sparks ripping through him, the burns on his wrists throbbing with every heartbeat.

Nightmares. A counterproductive but natural attempt by the human mind to deal with stress.

Bill was _dead_.

He let his head fall forward into the pillow in his lap with a quiet groan. His face was damp with sweat. Other than the hot burns on his wrists, his skin felt numb and stiff, but something on the inside stabbed at him when he shifted. Damage from the tail end of the torture. It’d heal. It seemed petty to worry about a mere couple of high-voltage shocks, when by rights he would have been crippled and broken for life.

“Whoa,” a gravelly voice said, too close. Ford flinched, scrambling for a weapon that wasn’t there. A moment later he froze, recognizing the shape of the man standing in the doorway.

“Stanley?”

Stanley – or to what degree was it Stanley? To what degree was it an amnesiac stranger with Stanley’s face? – was looking at Ford with an expression that could only be described as ‘sheepish’. “Yeah,” he said. “Well, I kinda prefer ‘Stan’.” He scratched the back of his head. “Although ‘Mr Mystery’ seems appropriate at this point.”

Ford drew a deep breath. “Yes, of course. Stan.” He straightened his back, put his glasses back on his face and fidgeted with his fingers on the pillow, hesitating. How long had he slept? How much of Stanley had Mabel managed to drag back, and how much of him was still an empty void? He seemed hesitant, but no longer _empty_ , not like he had been. Ford had wanted nothing more than to talk to his brother, but now – still trying to hold back shudders, facing a man that was part Stanley, part no one, he didn’t know what to say. Where would he start? Did he apologize? Did he try to explain? Did he acknowledge nothing until he knew exactly how much Stanley remembered?

“How do you feel?” he managed.

Stanley shrugged with affected nonchalance. “Pretty good, considering. Also, I’m not the one who practically woke up screaming from a midday nap a moment ago.”

Ford tensed. He would have preferred it if Stanley hadn’t seen that. “Just a nightmare.”

“Mh-hm.”

This was awkward. “Where are the kids?”

“Looking for something edible. Told them I’d go check on you.” He grimaced slightly, eyes flicking to the side. “Look, I—”

Ford steeled himself. “You don’t remember me at all, do you?” Expected. Painful, like yet another knife in his guts, but expected.

Stanley looked down at his shoes. “No. Tell ya the truth, I mostly remember the kids, and a bit of my job. You could be the man in the moon for all I know.”

Ford could only nod. The children could only do so much, only inspire Stanley to remember _them_ , but if he remembered his business, he’d most likely be able to resume his life. His brother may still be lost to _Ford_ , but maybe that was for the better. He pulled a hand through his hair, trying to think of words to say, but all of them stuck in his throat. He was no Mabel. How hard would it be to just tell Stanley he was his twin, that he wanted to help, that he didn’t want to lose him again? Evidently, very hard. He couldn’t assume Stanley would be able to remember him. He couldn’t even assume he’d want to.

Stanley continued. “They said you’re my brother.”

“That’s right,” Ford said. That much, at least, was a biological fact, and it was something that could be easily shown if Stanley wasn’t clear on the matter. He abruptly put the pillow aside and stood up, ignoring the way the movement made something sharper than pins and needles tear into him. “Come here.” The large mirror was still covered by a sheet, so he pulled it off and gestured for Stan to join him. “See for yourself.”

It was just as uncomfortable than the last time they’d been standing together in front of a mirror, but for entirely different reasons. Stanley didn’t look much like their father after all. He was too soft, too casual, too much emotion in his eyes even now. It was Ford that looked like Filbrick, ramrod straight and clench-jawed. The realization stung, but he wished he could have seen it sooner.

Stanley put a hand on his chin, studying their faces. “We’re twins, aren’t we?” he concluded. “Like the kids.”

Ford nodded, trying not to be too disappointed that the sight of their faces next to each other hadn’t made Stanley remember anything. Of course it wouldn’t. If it was even possible, it would take more, and could Ford even justify dragging up decades-old wounds just because he wanted his brother back?

“Huh.” Stanley paused. “Is that why we’d swapped clothes before? I was wearing your clothes and pretending to be you for some reason?”

“Yes.” Deduction, not recollection. At least it seemed like Stanley’s cognitive functions hadn’t been damaged, and he should be grateful of that. With a sigh, Ford sat back on the couch, rubbing his eyes under his glasses. “I take it that didn’t stir any memories.”

“Sorry,” Stanley said, as if that was something he should apologize for. Sitting down next to Ford on the couch, he folded a leg beneath him and half-turned in Ford’s direction.

“Don’t be,” Ford said, leaning against the backrest and looking at the ceiling, not at his brother. “It’s frankly a miracle that you can remember anything at all. There’s no reason for you to—"

“Hey,” Stanley interrupted. “Your hands.”

Ford winced. He could take other people mocking his hands. He’d been a freak since birth, he knew that as well as—as Bill did. But Stanley had been the one person who’d _never_ —

But he didn’t mock them. Instead, Stanley gently braided the fingers of his left hand in the spaces between the fingers on Ford’s right, holding up their clasped hands. “Sixer,” he said quietly, almost reverently.

Ford’s breath caught in his lungs. “You remember?”

“We used to do this when we were small.” Stanley said, staring at their hands with wide eyes. “I used to think my hands fitted much better with yours than with people with five fingers.”

Ford’s shoulders started to tremble. Blinking away tears, he stared at their joined hands, too. “Yes. Yes – you did say that.” His hands, of all the things to remember. Not the fights or the dismissals, not working for thirty years and being punched for the trouble. No, just the fact that their hands fitted well together when they were children.

Like a snapshot in Mabel’s scrapbook. He wasn’t going to cry.

Stanley smiled wistfully. “Oh, good. I do have a past after all.”

Ford wiped his eyes with his free hand, refusing to acknowledge the tears. Voiceless, he nodded.

“I want to say your name is Stanford,” Stan continued, eyes unfocused like he was trying to see through the fog in his mind. “It’s weird, but I also want to say _my_ name is Stanford. But that can’t be right. I mean, you called me Stanley just now.”

Ford made an undefinable sound, neither a sob nor a chuckle, clenching his hand tighter around Stanley’s. He really should have seen that one coming. “You’re right, I’m Stanford. Your name is Stanley. Our father was uncreative, but not _that_ uncreative.”

Stanley leaned back a bit and huffed. “That, I want to believe.” He grimaced. “I prefer ‘Stan’ anyway. And you go by ‘Ford’, right? That’s what the kids used.”

Ford nodded, silently glad that Stanley didn’t decide to pursue the topic further. He knew that the years of using Stanford’s name would have to come out into the open at some point, but not right now. “I prefer ‘Ford’, yes.”

“Alright, so I remember your excellent hands, that’s something.” Stanley said, as if trying to summarize to himself, disentangling his hand from Ford’s. Ford’s hand fell into his lap, strangely empty. “I kinda want to ask if we’ve got any old childhood photo albums or something—”

Ford perked at that. “We might, in fact, have that!” The idea was so obvious he hadn’t even thought of it – their childhood together in New Jersey. The good times. He knew their mother had sent him a box of old memorabilia, including school yearbooks and childhood photo albums, back when he first moved to Gravity Falls, and Stanley surely wouldn’t have thrown such things away, so it was only a matter of finding them.

“—but there’s something else I need to ask you about first.”

“And what would that be?” Ford bit his lip, bracing himself for anything Stanley might have remembered without context.

Stanley leaned forward, away from Ford, supporting his arms on his thighs and looking down at his own knees. “I didn’t want to ask the kids. Maybe I shouldn’t ask you either, but—” He sighed. “Look, I’m amnesiac, not dumb. I didn’t lose my memories by some random fluke. Something went down here. The kids are _battered_ – Dipper has a bump the size of my thumb on his head! The Shack is thrashed. I’m bruised, too. As for you, you look dead on your feet and have nightmares in the middle of the day.”

“I’m not—”

“And unless I was hallucinating while I was still trying to remember how to wear a dress shirt, you’ve got some weird-looking burns under than sweater.”

Ford sighed and leaned forward too, mirroring his brother’s pose without looking at him.

“I just wanna know what the hell happened!” Stanley finished with some heat.

“You saved us,” Ford said softly.

“Yeah, and then there’s that. Apparently I’m some kind of hero for – I dunno – _not_ saving my family from getting injured?”

Ford spluttered, taken aback by that. “You saved us from far worse!”

“Sure, and I’d take credit for it too, if I could remember any of it. But since I don’t, how about you tell me.”

Ford drew a deep breath, straightening his back again. He could understand why Stanley wanted to know. The memory wipe would be confusing enough in itself, but with no reference points other than the obvious fact that something deeply unsettling had happened, it would be unbearable. At the same time, it was the equivalent of starting a story at the end. “You want me to tell you about Weirdmageddon.”

“Weirdma-what?”

“It’s what we called it.” Ford fidgeted with the sleeve of his coat. “It was very nearly the end of the world. If not for you, it would have been.”

“Okay. I saved the world.” Stanley’s tone was only slightly skeptical.

“It’s a very long story.” It was long, and Ford wasn’t sure how to tell it.

“Then tell me the short version. What happened to you and the kids, why can’t I remember anything, and are we still in any kind of danger?”

“I—” Ford hesitated. “I need you to know something first. In case it triggers memories, or for when or if your memories return later. I need you to know that I’m sorry.” He wanted Stanley to understand, but at the same time he knew he wouldn’t, not now, perhaps never.

Stanley looked back at Ford. “For what?”

Ford didn’t meet his eyes. “For many things. I’ve made mistakes. We both did, but I—I haven’t been a very good brother.” He swallowed. This was probably incoherent for Stanley at the moment. “Maybe that’s for a later time. I just need you to know that I’m sorry.”

“That’s not ominous at all,” Stanley said with a raised eyebrow.

“I didn’t mean—”

“Just tell me about Weirdma-whatnot.”

Ford took a deep breath to collect himself. “A demon called Bill Cipher broke through to our dimension.” He glanced at Stanley, but to his relief his brother didn’t seem disinclined to believe in the existence of demons. “Ultimately,” he continued, “the blame for this lies on me. Many years ago, Bill manipulated me into creating the means to make this invasion possible.” This was still hard to say out loud, but it felt necessary.

Stanley said nothing, so Ford went on. “Bill immediately started to remake this world in his chaotic image, which is what we referred to as Weirdmageddon. But because of a naturally occurring barrier around this area, he was unable to take it beyond the valley of Gravity Falls.” Ford’s hand clenched around the fabric of his coat. “I went to confront Bill on my own. I believed I’d be able to defeat him alone, but I was wrong, and he captured me.”

Stanley’s eyes narrowed. “So what did I do?”

“Frankly, I don’t know the details. I don’t even know how long Weirdmageddon lasted. Normal time was out of order, and in any case I wasn’t—” He bit his lip. _Don’t think about it._ “I think it was a few days. A week, maybe.” At least if he included whatever time he’d spent encased in gold. “Eventually you, the kids and some other survivors arrived with some kind of giant robot that distracted Bill while you freed me, as well as the townspeople Bill had petrified.”

Ford barely noticed that he’d hunched his shoulders, looking down at his hands again. He skipped the next part. “Bill wasn’t distracted for long. He recaptured all of us and threatened Mabel and Dipper.”

Stanley’s face hardened visibly at that.

“I was ready to give in and give him what he wanted for the chance that they’d be safe.” The memory tasted like ash in his mouth. “But the children bought us a few minutes of time and you came up with a plan to kill Bill, using a weapon that erases memories. If we could use it to erase a person’s entire mind while Bill was projecting into it—” He trailed off.

“And that’s why I can’t remember stuff?”

“It should have been me!” Ford turned to finally look straight at Stanley. “But I have a metal plate installed in my head that would have protected both me and Bill from the effects, so I _couldn’t_.” He needed Stanley to see that. “So you took my place, tricking Bill to go into your mind instead of mine, and I wiped your memories to destroy him.” _I did this to you._ “Once he was dead, Weirdmageddon was reversed. We’re safe now, thanks to you.”

“Huh.” Stanley leaned back, relaxing slightly. “Makes as much sense as anything.”

“I didn’t think it would be possible for you to regain your memories,” Ford admitted, “but Mabel refused to believe that.”

Stanley smiled fondly. “She’s something else, isn’t she?”

“She really is.”

Shifting to face Ford again, Stanley adjusted his fez, frowning. “Let me get this straight, though. Am I getting it right? This guy held you captive for several days while you had something he wanted, and you wouldn’t give it to him until he threatened the kids?”

Ford winced, but nodded. He might have said too much, but at the same time, not enough. “I knew how to break the barrier around Gravity Falls and take Weirdmageddon worldwide,” he admitted, quietly. “And I would have told him, if you hadn’t found another way.”

“I get that, and I can hardly blame you.” Stanley’s face darkened. “But before that, you refused.”

Ford didn’t reply, but he didn’t have to.

“And he hurt you.” That wasn’t a question either.

Ford looked away. “Yes, but it could have been much worse. He was able to reverse the damage he inflicted, so most of it may as well never have happened.”

“Great Moses.” Stanley fell silent for a few seconds. “Do the kids know?”

“I believe they’re under the impression I was turned into a gold statue for the whole duration.”

“Good.” He seemed to hesitate, and but before the silence could become too awkward, he continued. “Look, Sixer. I barely remember you. For all I know, you’re really a horrible jerk of a brother. But—” He paused again, then shook his head and made a strange, lop-sided grin. “It sounds to me like we make a hell of a team in a crisis.”

Conflicting emotions roiled in Ford’s stomach. Stanley had no idea how wrong he was. But he was also right. In the end, he was right, and maybe that’s what mattered.

“Can I—” Stanley paused. “Oh, of course I can.” Without further warning, he wrapped his arms around Ford and pulled him into a tight hug.

For a moment Ford was too startled to move. Startled, but strangely without fear. On the contrary, he felt safe. Stanley might not _know_ , but he _cared_ , and wasn’t that such a Stanley response to the situation? He shouldn’t be worrying about Ford. He’d lost objectively far more than Ford had. Nevertheless, it was warm, and somehow, Ford needed this. He put his arms around Stanley’s back, returning the embrace, and buried his face in his brother’s shoulder.

“I used to stand between you and the bullies, didn’t I? When we were kids.”

Ford hugged him tighter. “You did,” he said, voice muffled by Stanley’s suit. “You remember that?”

“Very vaguely. I bet you’re the little brother.”

Ford raised his head with a small huff. “I’m fifteen minutes older than you.”

“I find that hard to believe.” He grinned.

They disengaged from the hug, but stayed together in silence for a while longer, leaning against each other’s shoulders. It was comfortable, to the point that things seemed to be almost well. It wasn’t, not really, and Ford knew he didn’t deserve this. If Stanley remembered him properly, he would hardly be so comfortable with him. For Stanley’s sake, he finally stirred. “We should—”

Stanley spoke simultaneously. “Do you—”

Both fell silent. Finally, Ford gestured for Stanley to go first.

“I was gonna ask if you need any first aid or something. Or if you took care of that.”

Ford’s slight grimace must have said enough. Come to think of it, it would be a good idea to clean and disinfect the surface burns, at least.

“We should do that, then.” Stanley shifted and stretched his arms. “What were you gonna say?”

“I was going to suggest that we find those photo albums. It would be a place to start.”

Somehow, amnesia and all, Stanley looked happy. “Right,” he said. “Sounds like we’ve got a plan.”

 


End file.
